This blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Journal 32 - Mold Cancer

I don't want cork in my belly, even if it'scork from the Medoc region – corks are so invasiveand tasteless when they lurch into your throatyworld. My throat has diminished in confidence andauthority these recent springtime days – unfoldinglike pollen-showered daisies with their nastymucus-generating cough. My throat feels likemold cancer – if cancer could feel. My jointssnap but they don't hurt. My throat hurtsbut doesn't snap – I think a good thing. Theroom I sit in smells, reeks of sweaty gymclass clothes and socks mixed with a liberal doesof 2 year old vomit – very distinctive in its milk-based stench. Each breath is like a breath inhaled among the corpses of smellyfeet and bio-undegradeable waste kicking outa post-mortem living in prime real-estate -do not tread on the paths of the dead: ghostscould be real even if I've never shook handswith one. Ghosts are such close cousins to the ancient fairy tales. Counterpacts or counterpoints are always needed; all we need noware the realists hacking away at the finechiseled beauty that is the Davíd. So cutin his naked hard looks – Michelangelo knewthe ways of love, sought the ways of sweetunrequited love – decisions can be suchsurprises in their natural furtive state – whomnow I love is a mystery as old as Platoand King David – older than the dead throbbinglights that call to us from the ancientnight – penetrating this man's brush and thatwoman's pen – asleep in deep thought the misfitbeckoned from his rocky path I grabbed hisarm and tried to prevent his physical in-trusion to their manicured home – one moredeath senseless countless death, since menconvinced Jesus and the Holy Spirit to sit backand observe how wise man cures poverty andhomelessness.